


DaveKat on Ice

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (but gayer), Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, F/F, Gen, M/M, The Nutcracker, kind of inspired by Yuri on Ice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-11 21:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9029747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: Dave Strider is going to be the ballet dancer of the Skaian Dance Troupe, and anyone who says otherwise can eat shit. That's after he beats them to death with a pointe shoe. So, when newcomer Karkat Vantas gets a role that danseur noble Strider believes to be his, things are most definitely not going to be as sweet as a Sugar Plum Fairy.A tale of friendship, love, and how fucking hardcore ballet is.





	1. Увертюра

**Author's Note:**

> Let's be real, ballet is hardcore as _fuck_. Also, this fic is inspired by a comment from seerofbread during a marathon of Yuri on Ice. Welcome to hell!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to point out any typos, because there are probably some. Comments, feedback, and suggestions are also welcome.

**Your name is Dave Strider, and you are pissed as hell.**

You are _the_ premier ballet dancer in Skaia. Sure, it's not the most traditionally masculine thing to do, but you will straight up shove a ballet shoe up the ass of anyone who says it's not one of the most hardcore things ever.

...Okay. You'll admit it now. You're not _really_ the top ballet dancer in Skaia. In fact, you're a pretty lowly person on the grand hierarchy of ballet royalty, but you'll be damned if you had to say that you're not going to be _the_ ballerina of Skaia someday. You'll kick every other dancer's ass. Men, women, and goddamned fairies. You'll kick all of their asses to take your place as the _de facto_ Skaian ballerina.

But, now, back to the topic. See, your local ballet company put out a casting call for the yearly production of _The Nutcracker_ , and you applied. Knowing you'll never dethrone Jake Has-Legs-of-Pure-Dancing-Gold English and claim his role as _The_ Nutcracker, of _The Nutcracker_ fame, you applied for a slightly lesser role.

...Okay. To avoid being called the fuck out, you'll admit that you applied for a _much_ less impressive role. Specifically, you applied to be one of the soldiers. A cutesy man with rosy pink cheeks and choreography worthy of America's Most Generic Dance Routines. Still, you'd be a good guy and you'd get to have a pretty badass sword. The ballet company, after all, uses _real_ goddamned swords. Blunted, of course, but totally real.

Instead, you got cast in a slightly better role. You're a Russian! Huzzah! Praise the tsar, or whatever the hell was in power whenever Tchaikovsky churned out over an hour of completely baked, sugar-coated ballet crap.

You'd be perfectly happy if it wasn't for _him_.

His name is Karkat Vantas. He's twenty-one (a year younger than you), mediocre, _not even a born-and-bred Skaian_ , and a fellow applicant. Somehow, despite you being his _obvious_ superior, he's gotten the coveted role of the beloved dancing bear. He's also (despite being Indian) one of the Chinese dancers. And you're salty as hell.

How _dare_ this amateur get a role that you deserve? You would be a much better dancing personification of a ballet-loving furry's wet dreams!

"You're not still fuming about the casting, are you?" A familiar voice draws you from your inner rage. It's soft, calm, and can only belong to your goddamned cousin. "Dave, neither the Chinese dancers _nor_ the teddy bear are really _that_ important. In fact, I'm certain that the teddy bear was a later edition, though I can't definitively prove this without further research."

"Can it, Rose," you respond, "You're _Clara_. It doesn't matter who's who to you, except for Jake Legs-Like-Fine-Mink-Fur English." (In hindsight, that was an incredibly odd thing for you to say, and you're not entirely sure why you compared the legs of _danseur noble_ and social elite darling, Jake English, to mink fur. You could have done better.)

Rose responds with an unaffected shrug. As usual, she dismisses your concerns. "Whatever, Dave. I'll just let you boil yourself like a lobster full of unnecessary rage. Not my problem, right?" She pulls out some of her usual black lipstick, applies a layer, and tugs at her light purple scarf. "I've got a date with Kanaya, and you're not going to be what causes me to be tardy."

* * *

**Your name is Karkat Vantas, though it's technically Karuna "Karkat" Vantas.**

You're not entirely sure who Dave Strider is, though you're told that he's an "ambitious and hardworking guy" by many. The lovely lady cast as the lead, however, addressed him as "a crude asshole with more hot air than brains in his vacuous expanse of a skull".

You've yet to form an opinion.

However, for the past few minutes, you've seen him side-eyeing you like you're a nasty virus. He snarls like an angry dog whenever you're nearby, and you're getting some fucking serious "creepy, weird type to avoid altogether" vibes from him.

Until now, though, you've yet to interact with him.

Not that this interaction is proving to be anything that could possibly disprove your preconceived notions of his character. In fact, if first impressions are important, then this guy might as well have greeted you by dropping his pants and shoving his ass in your face. He's abrasive, annoying, and conceited as hell.

"So, what? You know people up at the top? I bet you paid them for your role," he goads you.

You, however, have been getting anger management tips from your friend and fellow ballet dancer, Kanaya. (Doing a fucking graceful _pirouette_ off the handle at the drop of a hat might feel good, but it's unbecoming for a rising ballet star.) Rather than going off, as you usually do, you take a deep breath. "I'm a dancing bear. I'm a fully-grown man, who will be forcibly shoved into a bear costume and made to dance for the amusement of other fully-grown adults."

"Whatever," the blond, with skin paler than anything you've ever seen before, sneers. He pushes his stupid sunglasses up with his thumb and eyes you over, seemingly sizing you up. Since you're at least a foot shorter than him, you're not sure what this is supposed to accomplish. "Where're you from, anyhow? You're definitely not from Skaia."

"I moved from Alternia two years ago," you shrug. After fishing your tablet from your bag, you begin to work on an email to your brother, Kankri. As much as you hate him and believe that he exists only to annoy the hell out of you, you're certain that he'll want to know about your casting. You hold up your tablet, snap a photo of the page with your name on it, and start typing the email.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can still see Dave. From what you can tell, he's about to explode like a half-baked elementary school volcano.

You're not exactly sure what his problem is, but you can tell that he's not going to be your new best friend. Not that you'd want him to be. He seems like a complete jackass.


	2. Мариинский театр

**Your name is Dave Strider, and you just... You just _really_ love apple juice, man.**

Of course, you'd enjoy it a lot more if you didn't have to look at _him_ while you were drinking it. Him and his stupid, wild, thick black hair. Hair that flies in every direction, seemingly sticking out however it pleases, regardless of the laws of physics. Cocky and stupid. Just like him. It's as if, just because it belongs to _him_ , it doesn't have to follow the conventional laws of reality. Just. Like. Him. 

_God-fucking-dammit!_

You just _really_ fucking hate him. He's so annoying. Sitting there, his face set in a perpetual scowl, his brows furrowed, as if he doesn't give a damn that he's the dancing bear. He could at least put some effort into looking happy to get such a damned good part. Sure, he has to contend with a mascot head scented with the sweat of ten years of various dancers' hard work, but that's a small price to pay for the adoration of a handful of Skaia.

"You're doing it again, David." Someone suddenly blocks your view. A waistline, which is neither particularly large nor notably small, is marked by a vivid purple sash. The sash stands out against a plain black dress, and a white pearl necklace rests against pale skin, though it's not quite as pale as yours. You know who it is without needing to look at the face, and experience tells you to let her continue speaking. Interrupting her is only asking for trouble; the worst you can get is a lecture, with a verbal beating marking the lower end of the sliding scale. "You're fixating on him, and he's not as bad as you make him seem." A quiet chuckle, though you can't see anything funny about this. This is some serious shit. "If someone only judged Karkat on what you say about him, they'd probably think he's the Antichrist."

"Because he _is_!" To add effect to your words, you pound your fists against the plastic folding table. "I'm convinced he's an alien, too. He's probably hiding nubby little horns under that fucking mop of hair. At night, I bet he sneaks around the dancers' apartments and sticks his tongue out. And his tongue is a proboscis. And he uses the proboscis suck out your goddamned soul. He's a goddamned dementor!"

There's a brief pause before Rose answers, her words chosen as carefully as they always are. "That's _really_ blowing things out of proportion, Dave. And he's definitely not an alien. We'd be perfectly aware of whether or not he was one by now. In fact, seeing as you share a changing room, you'd be considerably more in tune to that than I." To add insult to injury, she tacks on a knowing smirk. "Or, maybe he _is_ an alien, and he's sucked out your common sense! Ha! That's a great joke, because it seems apparent that you've never had any."

"Ha ha," you spit, "Very fucking funny." Folding your arms across your chest, you lean back. Only after you're past the point of no return do you realize that they threw out the old chairs—the wooden ones with backs from the elementary school down the street—last week. You hit the floor with a hollow _thud_ , and involuntarily squeeze your juice box. Thus, you find yourself on your back and covered with apple juice.

Perhaps the pianist and your long-time friend, John, was right. Apple juice is a curse. You are _never_ drinking apple juice again. At least, not today.

* * *

**Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you've decided to begin the new year by being a motherfucking better person.**

So, when you witness the twit—you mean Strider—end up on his conceited ass and covered with juice, you take it upon yourself to help. You're vaguely disappointed that Kanaya had to drop off some shit at the cleaners, though, because that means no one you particularly care about is here to witness you being a shining example of human kindness. Of course, the point of a good deed isn't recognition by your peers; that's merely a massive boon.

"You okay, Strider?" you inquire, offering your hand to help him up.

He responds to your good deed by throwing his empty juice box at your fucking head. Clearly, this man is an absolute tool. He's probably comprised entirely of juvenile fantasies, ultra-macho stupidity, and full-on goddamned bullshit. "I'm perfectly fine," he spits, stumbling to his feet. When he's up, he brushes himself off, though it doesn't do any good. 

You can't brush off liquid, and you have a vague urge to tell that to him in the most condescending way possible. However, being a better you, you bite your tongue.

"This is your fault, you know. If you hadn't come here and taken my role, we wouldn't have any problems! None! They'd all be gone, like dust in the fucking wind that blows across a massive goddamned valley of apathy." _Damn,_ you think, _This one's wordy._ As if it will somehow enhance his argument, he jabs his index finger at your chest, poking you in the sternum. His stupid shades slide out of place, revealing a pair of odd, bright red eyes. For the first time, you also recognize a small, circular septum piercing. In your mind, it makes him look like a raging bull. The fact that it's plain gold doesn't help.

And, after a few seconds of consideration, you decide that this clearly isn't worth your time. "You're an absolute fucking soggy circus peanut, and it baffles me that you have survived this long with such a tiny brain."

He opens his mouth, as if to respond, then closes it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can swear you see his female lookalike smirking, but you're not too sure. And you're not keen on sticking around to find out. You turn on your heel and storm out of the combination rest area and cafeteria before returning to your apartment, which is on the floor above the dance studio.

**Author's Note:**

> If my childhood dance teacher sees this: I'm so sorry.


End file.
